


Великие

by 784



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, Renaissance Era, Russian Empire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:22:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29758203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/784/pseuds/784
Summary: Feeling unsure of himself, Knyazhich Dimitri of Obolensk decides to test his skills by joining folk boxing matches. His ardent challenger makes a caliber opponent in a way or another.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Kudos: 9





	Великие

Knyazhich Dimitri stared in disbelief.

He warily eyed the thrown rogatina spear. The melee weapon had its tip stuck into the snow, some distance away from where he stood. His arms were tired. His legs were no better, either—by now he would not be surprised if his stance was messy; worse than a beginner who just touched a spear for the first time. Snow splattered all over his blue armiak—heavy cloth coat—staining all over his chest to the waist where a gashnika—drawstring—belted his trousers. His gorlatnyi—boyar fur hat—already met its misfortune firsthand for being knocked off his head earlier.

“Dima, that’s…”

Slowly, Knyazhich Dimitri picked himself up. He breathed, trying to summon back his strength. His gloved hands dusted the snow off his chest. Ignoring his trembling fingers, the prince balled his fists again—or tried to. He could still feel the sensation of heat somewhere there; remnant of the massive force which managed to disarm his spear. “More,” he said. “Please.”

By his side, his visiting friend frowned. He had watched the Obolenski nobleman trying to score a thrust, cleave, and strike. Yet nothing could penetrate Knyaz Lambert’s defense so far—if anything, the harder the son tried, the worse the impact he received from trying to withstand Knyaz Lambert’s counters.

Dedue wished he could just grab Dimitri’s shawl to pull him back here. Visiting his blond-haired friend for the winter wasn’t something he was new to doing. Both had been exchanging visits and stays for as long as their friendship lasted. Sometimes Dimitri would travel south to Krasnodar to visit Dedue in Sochi, and Dedue would pay it back by staying with the Blaiddyds in return. Typically, Dimitri would visit Dedue in Sochi during winter. Due to its proximity with the romantic Black Sea, the Krasnodar region made a cozier place to be when winter hit the vast Russian Empire. Sochi winter, according to Dimitri and Dedue, was relatively tamer compared to Moscow Oblast. Likewise, Dedue would plan a payback visit when the sun took turn to say hello in Krasnodar—he would be in Obolensk with Dimitri and his family, enjoying the festive season and sweating relatively less compared to how it would have been in Sochi.

If there was one thing Dedue could be sure of, Knyaz Lambert just had a penchant for sporty activities. When most people chose to bask themselves in the warmth of their homes in winter, Knyaz Lambert, on the other hand, saw winter the way others saw summer—a period to be active and enjoying the scenery.

“Are you sure? Perhaps you should heed your friend.”

Dedue noted how calm the Blaiddyd patriarch’s voice was. Knyaz Lambert stood firm on the snow, unflinching a little bit. Everyone practically had their feet deep to the shin in the snow for now, but Knyaz Lambert didn’t look at all troubled—if anything, he was prime; hardly sweating as though his own sovnya—Russian glaive—didn’t just pound his son _real good._ At the same time, Dimitri appeared unfazed. When the tip of the single-edged pole shone under faint sunlight, all he did was discarding his warm sable fur coat and redid his stance.

“Your opponent isn’t Dedue, Lord Father.”

Dedue sighed. Knyaz Lambert, however, merely chuckled. Casually, he lowered his weapon, startling dear son who looked more determined than ever. “If I keep going, Dima,” said the prince. “You won’t be able to stand up after we’re done.”

Dimitri paused. His balled fists loosened. His body language shifted now that he wasn’t in full-combat mode like prior. “But I can still…” he wanted to argue, but Lambert was having none of it, because his head=shaking immediately shut that down too.

“To be a bogatyr, you need to know what you can and cannot do,” he said. “And this isn’t it. Look at you—messy.”

“I can still fight you.”

“And with what?”

“Like this?” Dimitri threw a fist towards Lambert’s direction. However the nobleman quickly evaded it the moment Dimitri’s movement entered his periphery, delivering the younger Blaiddyd of the promised prophecy right away. Dimitri gasped. He crashed into the snow as predicted—face-first, slapped by the harsh cold surface which almost froze his nose. Not only that, he couldn’t even grumble about it since the snow swallowed his voice! He didn’t struggle when Dedue’s pair of hands grabbed him on the shoulders, pulling him back in.

“I’m terribly sorry about my son. Dima is passionate as we know,” Lambert smiled apologetically at Dedue. “If only he wouldn’t push. Perhaps he will listen if it’s you.”

“Don’t worry, Your Grace,” Dedue bobbed his head at him. Knyaz Lambert’s return into the house prompted Blaiddyd servants to rush outside. They were stunned upon seeing Dimitri haplessly lay flat over the snow, with Dedue trying to rival the blonde’s weight just so both could stand back up. “Dima, it’s over.”

“Hrrrgh. One—more.”

“Your father went back inside.”

“What?! But how come? I’m not done yet!”

“Apparently he does!” Dedue _slapped_ the blonde on the back. When the latter coughed, Dedue gave a solemn nod at the waiting line of servants, signaling them to come. “Come on now, Dimitri Lambertovich. It’s getting dark.”

“Is he alright, my lord?” the servants finally asked Dedue, too awed for anything else. But how couldn’t they? Dimitri had half of his face against the snow. His clothing article scattered around him like falling autumn leaves—the gorlatnyi, the armiak, which by now suffered a torn after meeting Lambert’s sovnya… and worst of all, perhaps his dignity too in the process.

When Dedue cocked his eyebrow, the servants understood—the prince wouldn’t stop until he _realized_ he was defeated. So they decided to team up with Dedue right there. Together, each of them took a hold of Dimitri, truly pulling him back on his feet. Dimitri coughed out some nice snow blobs he was close to swallowing, and servants practically scurried the field without being asked to save the scattered clothing articles.

“How are you feeling?” Dedue made a gentle grin. When the last servant went out of the house with a cup of hot samovar chay in his hand, Dedue took over it, holding the cup at the blonde’s face.

“Bad,” Dimitri grumbled. “What was that?! My father seems to think I’m that hapless. I was close. You saw that, didn’t you? I took a swing…”

“And lost,” Dedue deadpanned.

“Well,” Dimitri pouted. “It’s not like I am defeated.”

“Dima.”

“I just got unbalanced, that’s all!”

“… Like your spear?”

“Alright. Fair. But I tell you what—“

Dedue _writhed_ where he stood when Dimitri grabbed the teacup he was holding impatiently. It was too late for him to say anything as everyone watched in horror—Dimitri downed the tea without hesitation, and…

“Blast, hot!!” Dimitri gasped. Hot liquid invaded his throat like a well-lined war wagon; strong and forceful, causing fire over each step it trod on. He coughed furiously, throwing the teacup elsewhere-who cares out of reflex. Thankfully Dedue managed to catch it before it landed on one of the servants’ forehead. However the sudden gesture was startling, and Dimitri soon found himself land back in the snow—

“Dima.”

“Y-Your Lordship…”

“Get off my legs, every last one of you! I _have_ to challenge my father!”

“Dima, we can’t pull you back in if you insist on _swimming_ the snow—“

“You are not my mother, Dedue.”

“Your Lordship! H-hold on, Your Lordship!”

“What is it that I cannot do, after all? It’s just a thrown spear! I only lost twenty times and failed fifty strikes! I only hit the snow ten times too—surely that’s too early for a defeat. I almost got him—I was this close, Dedue; I don’t need your help—“

“That sounds like a defeat to me.”

“Sounds like one doesn’t mean one! This—oh, no. Since when did the snow turn into a quicksand?!”

“If you keep wiggling like a salmon, then—“

“What’s going on here?”

Servants stopped as Dedue _blanked._ The front door opened again, revealing Knyaz Lambert and Knyaginya Patricia by the threshold. The dainty noblewoman gasped when she found dear stepson lying spread-eagle over the snow… except his back was facing them, and it looked like he was drowning!

“Oh, Lambert! Dima has turned into a misplaced salmon!”

“Everything is under control, Dear Stepmama! Soon, Lord Father will know that…”

“… That you need help.” Sighing, Lambert _fished_ Dimitri out of the snow, ignoring pairs of widened eyes which targeted them both curiously. Dedue stared because Knyaz Lambert practically hoisted Dimitri over his shoulder like a sack of harvest grain… while Dimitri himself lost all his willpower and became as still as a log.

********

  
  


“Dima.”

“Dedue?”

“Are you sure about this?”

“A hundred-percent.”

Silence ensued again and Dedue couldn’t resist to feel concerned. Silence seemed to be the mood which plagued the Obolenski nobleman ever since that fateful training day. Dimitri barely spoke when they all returned into the house. He was pensive when servants once again checked on him to see if he suffered any concerning injury during that rigorous training session with Knyaz Lambert. He ate his meals silently; behaving like a shadow which swirled and moved undetected. However his responses remained polite, and he dismissed all the concerns as fatigue as he retired for the night.

Yet it just didn’t stop there. Even Dedue was taken off guard when Dimitri didn’t lose his somberness when they greeted each other in the morning. The blond nobleman ate his food silently, small bites followed more-than-usual tea sips without sparing much to engage everyone else in a small breakfast table conversation. However he left his plate clean without any leftover, so this behavior easily went ignored by the servants.

“How are you feeling?” Knyaz Lambert asked as usual whenever their training went rougher than usual. “A visit to the banya—sauna—will help you feel better.”

“Wonderful, Lord Father. Thank you very much.”

Lambert hummed in satisfaction, but Dedue had a different thought. That reply was conveyed dismissively, and Dimitri should better know that he couldn’t fool an entire table. After all Knyaz Lambert was eating at the head of the table, and soft frown would be easily undetected if one was to bend one’s neck down eating rye bread.

And Dedue wished he could do more.

Whatever it was which causes Dimitri’s mood to sour so badly, perhaps the session with Knyaz Lambert left a deeper scar on his blond friend. Gloominess wasn’t the only there that was as the day progressed—Dimitri conducted all his activities silently, as though he was bewitched under a spell. Looking remorseful than ever the Obolenski nobleman didn’t even bother to keep his sighing inaudible anymore.

“It’s like I have strength, but not power,” Dimitri contemplated when he broke a quill out of accident. Perhaps the wheel of life was rotating and put him on the ground this time because a series of incidents followed him throughout the day. Furniture which he accidentally knocked off, a thrown chair because he lifted it awkwardly, and even gloves he failed to catch when he asked Dedue to pass them to him! “Did you see that?” he complained as though he was in pain. “Nothing went well, Dedue. Nothing.”

Dedue merely picked up the scattered gloves to give him. “Enough brooding,” he chided softly. “That was an accident, Dima. Such things happen, even to the Tsar himself.”

“I don’t think Tsar Peter ever knocked a samovar…”

“Maybe it’s not a big deal for him, which is why we never heard of it!” Dedue couldn’t resist. “Why don’t we go sightseeing so you can unwind?”

They didn’t waste time to do just that the moment Dimitri said yes to everything. Prized sable shuba—fur coats—were taken out of the closet to accompany the cold-day tour. Dedue breathed relief when Dimitri curved his lips a little bit. The warmth coming from the well-tailored, expensive shuba had to comfort his Obolenski friend the way his honey-induced black tea could. Dedue had heard of Moscow winter, but even after being a recurrent guest at Dimitri’s household, Obolensk still proved to be quite a challenger!

It all started very simply. Both of them were merely sightseeing the streets. Dimitri looked quite contended as a swirl of cold breeze blew against his fringes. Some children were out at the streets throwing snowballs at each other while some others sped off in a sled. “I was merely wondering what I’m lacking,” finally Dimitri caved in. “I thought I had tried everything I could think of to score a hit.”

“Knyaz Lambert is a beast with a lance—you said it yourself,” Dedue replied. “If I were you, perhaps I’d be glad knowing well such title is still his.”

Dimitri hummed. His hand rested under his chin, his expression turning pensive. At first Dedue thought this simply meant that Dimitri finally conceded and would rather have them both return home before snow started hailing again, but…

“You know, come to think of it, I _am_ indeed lacking.”

That reply surprised Dedue like no other. “What do you mean?”

“You see,” Dimitri replied eagerly. “You must have seen the moments when I fell. Literally. Either when I couldn’t dent my father’s defense, or those indelicate moments where I was making a fool of myself.”

“Clumsy, you mean.”

“That,” Dimitri did a finger snap with a nod. “Exactly is. This only means one thing—I have to train better. There has to be something I can improve!”

“I don’t see anything wrong with your strength,” Dedue shrugged. “Still monstrous.”

“Even if that is the case, what is it for if I can’t do better with it?” Dimitri said. “I need to do something, Dedue. Just the right thing—the right step to change this all.”

Dedue was just about to reply when everything changed around them. People were rushing towards the town square to the left and right. Even those who were having a cruise with their sleds made their last lap just so they could join in others to do the same. Curiosity was always alluring enough to entice the cat… or a lion, perhaps; which alone successfully prompted Dimitri to turn around and get to move.

Dedue couldn’t believe his eyes then. People were gathering at the town square, cheering for each other. He would have guessed that there was some kind of a friendly sport match taking place—but apparently no, more than that, people were fighting!

… Right, fighting. The town square had turned into a chaotic mess… _fun_ chaotic mess, though. From his hometown to the south by the Black Sea, Dedue had heard of this winter folk boxing sport; most popular in Moscow and St. Petersburg. It dawned on him that Obolensk was pretty close to Moscow—which should explain the fever, but…

But Dimitri was watching _seriously._ His blond friend didn’t bat an eye when more and more people entered the square. And by more, it was indeed more—in no time people formed a circle to resemble an arena as they made a room in the center. Cheers were throw, insults followed suit. Yet that didn’t seem to affect both contestants and spectators alike because people kept going, challenging one-another. It was largely an informal event; resembling what might fit as a street fight than a well-moderated match with clear regulation to follow. Otherwise, why did some people come into the fight with wooden sticks? Didn’t matter either way—Dedue didn’t ask, and Dimitri didn’t care.

“Oops,” Dimitri gasped. Some people knocked him from behind. So fascinating the matches were that he didn’t realize he had been standing in the line, accidentally barring the best view from dozen-others who had grown impatient.

“Are you alright?” Dedue acted fast, however, saving Dimitri’s precious boyar hat from yet another stick when the next enthusiastic fighter went in. He looked at the blonde curiously because Dimitri had been smiling… too spirited and giddy for someone who just got pushed left and right. “… Dima?”

“I’ve never felt finer than this before,” Dimitri curved his lips… to cut a raw smirk at his friend. Watching weekend winter street boxing had never been in Dedue’s to-do list when he left for Obolensk. Yet watching Dimitri to be so _enthralled_ in one was beyond anything he dared to imagine!

“Dima?” warily, Dedue scanned his blond friend. No, there was absolutely no doubt, no regret—not anything that signaled the knyazhich wanted nothing but leaving this place. Dimitri’s eyes were fixed onto the center of the square where people brawled at each other. “… Dima?” Dedue repeated, waving his hand up and down right at the latter’s face.

“Look at them,” Dimitri nudged Dedue. “Which one do you think will win?”

Dedue followed where Dimitri’s index finger moved. He frowned. “Probably the shorter man. He is agile, and his opponent can only block so far without hitting back.”

“No, my friend!” Dimitri replied. “That shorter man will run out of room to move. He is cornered. You know what they say—lizards detach their tails so they can flee in order to survive. That’s what the taller man has been doing.”

“I don’t follow. He isn’t retreating,” Dedue scratched his head.

“Watch,” Dimitri replied… happily. Dedue frowned deeper. “The taller man keeps parrying because he wants to gauge the attack power. If you can withstand some blows to wait for that one perfect momentum to execute a hit that will end the game, I’d say it’s a fair bargain.”

Dedue crossed his arms. Really? He wasn’t even aware Dimitri was watching meticulously; completely absorbed in the fights. But the prediction didn’t miss. As Dimitri expected, the taller man started closing in, cornering the agile opponent until there wasn’t enough room to execute a proper footwork and maneuvered with the punches. Spectators erupted into frenzy when tables turned, except Dimitri who simply nodded and bobbed his head, expression stern and serious as though he was an art critic facing a magnum opus piece of the century. “Well,” Dedue cleared his throat. “You got it right.”

“It’s predictable,” Dimitri spoke, unclear if it was directed at Dedue or more to himself. “I suppose… yes, I suppose _that_ exactly is what I have to do to win against my father! Dedue, why don’t you hold my coat and hat?”

“What?” Dedue gasped. But Dimitri simply took off his gorlatnyi, insolently topped it over Dedue’s own. He began to take off the shuba he was wearing, including the fur shawl which encircled his shoulders.

“Why are you so surprised?” Dimitri chuckled. “I’m just going to join the fight.”

“No.” This time Dedue remarked sternly. “We need to think of your safety too. This is an unregulated fight, isn’t it? What if something bad befalls you?”

“Exactly the point, my friend. Going all-out, only me and my prowess!” Dimitri replied innocently. “If I fight more people with varying techniques and methods, I will be more experienced to all kinds of styles as well. We will leave this place wiser.”

“If you are wise you wouldn’t even think of joining the fight—“

“There are many people here, Dedue. They won’t be able to tell who I am.”

“But they _will,_ Dimitri Lambertovich. Knyaz Lambert practically owns this town, how on earth do you think people won’t recognize it’s you?”

“My friend, you worry too much!” Dimitri laughed. “I’ll be careful—and victorious. So why don’t you just cheer for me there? Come on, Dedue. They said even nobles at the capital liked these matches. Count Orlov…”

“The Empress’ favorite. Of course nobody can tell him no,” Dedue sighed.

“Well, aren’t I your favorite?” Dimitri shot adorable puppy-eyed stares at his friend. Sadly Dedue wasn’t immune to that, either—so he conceded, letting Dimitri do as he pleased—including participating in the brawling. Dedue watched warily when Dimitri raised his hand to take part in the crowd. “I’m in!” he shouted. “Is there not anyone willing to take on me? Please?”

Perhaps Dedue’s concern was unfounded.

It didn’t take long for Dimitri to find an opponent. Actually, it didn’t take long for him to find opponents! At first there was only one person, but as minutes passed by, more people came forward to challenge the Obolenski nobleman. Dimitri found himself fending off four people already, three relying on their bare hands to fight while one had come with double sticks. Admittedly at first it was rather awkward to adapt. There was no count, no referee; only people throwing hands against each other to see who landed on the ground first. Street fighting was unlike anything Dimitri had experienced so far—and certainly not the typical routine he would be served at home, or the gymnasium where other nobles gathered! Dimitri quickly learned street fighting demanded more than just techniques—it was tricky, it was messy; it was also crude and less predictable than annotated pugilism—so did he joked with Dedue one time—which steps came regulated one-two-three.

However soon he realized he had been enjoying everything indeed. Despite the initial surprise, Dimitri recovered quickly. He took a hold of his opponents, one by one. Knuckles versus knuckles, bare hands versus bare hands. Some met his uppercuts. Some others met his backhand smack. Dedue winced when Dimitri was thrown over the snow again, but his rescue was proven to be unnecessary—the blonde laughed!

“This is fun!” he said then. “I’m eager for more. Rrrraahh!”

Dedue scratched his head. Fun? Perhaps having too much money turned people… no, nobles, a masochist! Regardless, it was relieving to see Dimitri having a blast at the towns square. His skills were genuine, and his prowess was not joking. Applying spear-fighting techniques whilst barehanded apparently helped him score the nicest hits against his opponents. Getting used to Knyaz Lambert’s unpredictable strikes made him more perceptive of surprise attacks. Being used fight strength with strength prompted him not shying away from similar challenges. Opponents which didn’t want to retreat despite getting cornered? No problem, he was as stubborn as they were. Some people groaned and needed help being whisked out of the fights. Some others exchanged laughter and handshakes, prompting Dedue to squint his eyes. And Northerners were the ones to say hotter climate made one cranky?

“I guess that’s enough,” finally he decided. It was getting dark, and as expected people couldn’t be more right than this—it was their very own Knyazhich Dimitri who just wreaked havoc at the town square. Nobles taking part in the activity wasn’t new, but didn’t the rumors say this Obolenski nobleman was studious and rather sheltered?

“No, one more…”

“Dima, we haven’t told your father yet.”

“My ass is grown, my friend!”

“… You mean you are a grown ass man?”

“Exactly.”

“The problem is,” Dedue patted the blonde on the back. “There’s your father’s name tied to yours—and we didn’t know what he thought of… these matches.”

“He never spoke badly of it,” Dimitri argued.

“Yes, because you never took part in it before!” Dedue lifted a hand to ruffle his mane… and canceled the plan immediately when he remembered he still wore a gorlatnyi hat—now topped with Dimitri’s. “And certainly didn’t know you’d go as far as making me a coat hanger.”

“Sorry about that…” Dimitri rubbed his nose sheepishly. “But just one more, Mother, pretty please? One more. One more victory, and I’ll go with you without protest.”

“… Alright,” Dedue sighed, kicking Dimitri in the butt to throw him back to the arena. Dimitri chuckled, saluting his caring friend. Dedue sighed twice. Perhaps that was what Tsaritsa Ekaterina felt about her beloved subjects indeed—they just knew how to hit her soft spot, and found where that soft spot was!

“One more?” Dimitri balled his knuckles. “One more, my fellows, before we close this night with newfound connections as we resolved our feuds!”

It seemed nobody was eager to challenge Knyazhich Dimitri again. People started to disperse, leaving the town square one by one. The sun slowly went to sleep, leaving the sky with faint reddish-orange bows. The wind blew colder and Dedue began to look up, worrying for yet a potential snow fall. “No one then,” he called on Dimitri. “Let’s return.”

However that wasn’t the case. Not even Dimitri, who had practically stood at the center of the square itching for the next action. In the middle of dispersing crowd and sparse street stood a hooded figure, cloaked from the head to toe in dark green. When the figure slowly came into the arena where Dimitri had been standing, the granted full view could tell that… first, this person was pretty short; and second, there really was just a modest kosovorotka—collared peasant shirt—under the cloak. The challenger’s trousers were tucked into a nice pair of valenki—winter felt shoes. Both Dimitri and Dedue could see a shashka—Russian saber—hanging by the challenger’s waist, strapped to a belt.

“Knyazhich Dimitri, I would like to fight you.”

The challenge was spoken in a murmur, fainter than the raging wind which flew past Obolensk during these cold, cold winter nights. The way the challenger posited the demand tickled Dimitri’s senses in a way which he couldn’t comprehend just yet. Was it because the challenger’s unassuming figure? Modest and average, not very muscly or well-built. But then again people came in different sizes and heights after all, and there was no reason to turn down the last contender just because of the things beyond control. It could be because of the voice, in which the tone was firm but flat—without glee, without smugness, either. Most people would probably feel a bit unnerved by the entry—especially since it was clear that the challenger bore a sword. Yet curiosity always prevailed against the feline-kind that it did Dimitri otherwise—he was already intrigued because of the way this challenger dressed. Yes, there was a plain kosovorotka underneath that cloak. Yes, most people wore valenki in winter. But other things felt like a careless matching, as if this challenger woke up and just grabbed whatever available that day.

“A Cossack?” Dimitri blurted, pointing out at the headwear. It was a light gray papakha hat, made of the fur shaved off karakul—Persian lamb. Such hat was typically worn by Kuban Cossack generals in service of Russian monarchs, whose loyalty was unparalleled. Yet wearing that—instead of the tube-shaped shepherd hat—felt pretty off considering the challenger didn’t pair that hat with anything which identified as a Cossack. No distinctive Cossack jacket, no Cossack boots to match. Dedue began to be worried as well—a Cossack, coming with a sword? What dd his friend have come into?

The challenger merely offered an answer with a simple head shake. However the noblemen’s wariness didn’t go unnoticed because the challenger simply unfastened the belt which held that shashka… and gave it to Dedue, with a nod. Without saying anything the challenger stepped even closer to face Dimitri, waving at him before balling fists.

“Seems to me our little friend here is telling us that he will fight honorably,” Dimitri smiled. “Rest easy, Gospodin Kazak—Sir Cossack. You will get the match you ask of me fair and square.”

“Twice a hanger. Is this my life?” Dedue sighed comically.

“At least there’s a sword in there, my friend!” Dimitri quipped back. The challenger made a little smile, which attracted Dimitri’s attention as well. Those really were the most expressive mint-colored eyes he had ever been acquainted with so far, yes; more than that, it felt pretty comforting to know that someone else at least shared his lighthearted humor.

“You return without a bruise, and I can absolve that,” Dedue commented. Dimitri serenaded his friend with a gentle laughter as he and the mysterious alleged-Cossack challenger stepped forward to take the center of the town square. It really was getting dark. Some people lit candles to help passing carriages and carts, but by the time the first cold wind blew at their faces, the challenger threw a punch at Dimitri.

That was fast and definitely of a different level compared to the challengers Dimitri had through the entire day. He barely had time to dodge the sharply-cornering punch, but the challenger was also eager for more. Dimitri found himself being boxed into a corner as the challenger maneuvered; first through agile footwork, and second with an unyielding elbow-slam. Dimitri’s mind wandered. Strange, strange, strange. Gone was that newfound confidence which he thought he discovered around an hour ago—the challenger was fast and agile, reading his mind like a hawk. At the same time the odd Cossack wasn’t really devoid of prowess, either, because whilst Dimitri excelled in strength, the pushbacks and counters he received were strong enough to make head him lose his breath. He tried to parry all the attacks as best as he could, but tiredness started catching up on him that he failed to see an uppercut was out to find a prey…

“Dima!” Dedue yelled. The Obolenski nobleman was viciously thrown into the snow. The challenger had snuck under him and threw that uppercut to make it work. The punch caught Dimitri on the chin, ruining his balance the moment it collided with his body. Dimitri thought he could see stars as his legs gave up—

“My victory, Your Lordship,” the challenger whispered simply.

“Not yet,” Dimitri grunted as he tried to pick himself up.

“Through you are,” the challenger responded. “Good evening.”

“Wait!” Dimitri called before the challenger sped off. “… Was I bad?”

Dedue caught up with him. Much to his surprise the challenger still appeared calm. Not only that—there was no grudge, no mockery, nothing that hinted anything other than what was already displayed! “No.” Likewise, the reply, being very frank and to the point, managed to make Dimitri feel at ease. “However, you are careless.”

“Is this is the reason why you came challenging him?” Dedue cut in sharply. “With the intent to harm and humiliate?”

The challenger, however, kept cool regardless. “If so it was, His Lordship would have been dead.” Unperturbed and still not hostile, the challenger merely approached Dedue to take back the temporary-relinquished sword. “Or is it because I am someone of a common ground that all my defeats will be the proof of my inferiority, whilst my victories serve as a ground to accuse me of ill-will?”

Dimitri was too stunned to say anything else. That was probably the longest line he heard from the curious challenger, and admittedly it was… sharp. Sharp, like the uppercut which brought him down. At the same time he wondered if it was just him; but no doubt to his person that the challenger’s voice had been nice to listen to and he secretly wished he could hear more, including the mind-opening point he was shot with.

“I shall be off, my lords,” the challenger muttered simply, slightly bowing at both Dedue and Dimitri. “Like you, I too fancy a good match. After all, who wouldn't want to defeat the allegedly second-strongest man of Obolensk?”

“If that is the case…” slowly, Dimitri picked himself up. “Will you be here again next week, challenger, so we can do this again?”

********

  
  


“You are improving.”

Dimitri smiled, catching his gloves with his teeth to smooth the wrinkles. Before him stood Knyaz Lambert—panting—taking turn to have his gorlatnyi hat knocked down. Without being told, Dimitri knew he had to look worse than Knyaz Lambert. His father’s typically well-waxed hair had become messy, with his side fringes thrown wildly framing his face. Of course Knyaz Lambert still managed to knock Dimitri’s rogatina spear off the latter hands, but this time Dimitri had made everything difficult—his father had to break a sweat or a cup of it to do so.

Father and son went back on their usual winter training mode. Early in the morning they went out when they sky was still velvet-indigo, barely catching up with the moon which was about to go to sleep. Knyaz Lambert could feel his fingers trembling—Dimitri had countered his sovnya much better than a few weeks prior, and striking back to the attacks dear son launched had become rigorous and hard to do.

“You think so?” Dimitri’s face lit up. Lambert frowned a bit. This Dimitri looked genuinely eager and enthusiastic; not the sore-loser son who only wanted to charge like a bull and couldn’t even stomach being pronounced defeated. “Coming from you, Lord Father, truly priceless! I hope I make you proud!”

“Compared to last month? Definitely,” Knyaz Lambert couldn’t resist to muster a smirk. He grimaced when something _twisted_ his skin from behind, finding Knyaginya Patricia to be the culprit because she pinched his waist. “… Ahem. Just make sure you aren’t pushing yourself too far, son. Training is one thing, but be wise about your limit.”

“Same goes to you, Lord Father—otherwise you’ll go bald!” Dimitri chirped… and took turn grimacing because likewise Dedue pinched his waist too. Knyaginya Patricia sighed, ushering Knyaz Lambert inside because the latter was reduced to a bubbling mess, wondering if his age was catching up on him, or if he had picked the wrong material for his gorlatnyi hat so far that it cost him more white hairs.

“Well?” Dedue came forward to approach Dimitri. “How are you feeling?”

“Excellent,” Dimitri smiled. “It all thanks to that Cossack challenger, really. We traded blows, but at the same time I’ve been learning a lot.”

“Hmm. You’ve become faster, yes. I’m sure our dear teacher learned something in return,” Dedue responded with a smile too. “I saw the punches thrown at you were getting stronger just the same. What if you absorb each other’s skills harmoniously?”

“Such a poet!” Dimitri teased. “Didn’t know you had it in you, my friend!”

“My ass is grown too, Dima—I can _communicate_ without sulking like a salmon,” Dedue bit back the banter, pleased to see Dimitri’s flustered face. “Quite frankly, I wonder who this challenger is. Even for a Cossack, there’s so little in the person to tell of it.”

“Ah,” Dimitri shrugged. “Don Cossack, Kuban Cossack, Kavkaz Cossack—is that important? An honorable fighter is an honorable fighter just the same, peasant and not.”

Reminiscence took him back to the past winter evenings which he had been spending at the town square. After their first encounter, the challenger kept showing up even though Dimitri’s offer was never directly accepted. The challenger simply turned around and left the premise without saying a word. There wasn’t really any greetings exchanged between them afterwards, either. When the next weekend rolled, the challenger simply showed up, giving both Dedue and Dimitri yet another short bow before fighting Dimitri as expected. However this time the challenger granted the Obolenski nobleman’s request to keep going each time he fell.

Gospodin Kazak made Dimitri put more power on his legs just so he could rival the intricate footwork Dimitri was treated with to escape the maneuvering punches. Dimitri learned the hard way that no matter how strong his cross-cut was, everything would be useless if it didn’t land. Getting punched in the solar plexus was surely not a fun experience to have… five times, but everything was worth it when he came to understand how to avoid experiencing it for the sixth time. The challenger had curiously asked him what made him so strong, and in return Dimitri was more than glad to share tips as well.

“So you see, I wield polearms, and you wield swords, correct? There is actually a way to overcome your spear-wielding opponent’s advantage of length.” Dimitri started, happy to see the Cossack challenger’s neck arched to pay attention to him. “Would you like to hear more?”

They had been sitting idly on the bench, unwinding after tasting a couple of fights. They had faced off each other for a couple of rounds that day, and faced other fighters for some more in-between. Getting cornered in the middle with gawking opponents who were curious of their skills resulted in a fabulous team work—they wiped the arena with solid victory, each having the other’s back accordingly as they protected each other with their own skills and specialties. It seemed that that team work got to the mysterious challenger too because Dimitri could hear soft hums; contended and peaceful with faint chuckles which noted that his newfound friend was having fun like he did.

“You taught well too,” the Cossack challenger muttered softly. “I don’t see why you have to be so discouraged, Your Lordship. After all, it isn’t that you are unskilled.”

“If one’s father is a mountain to surpass, everything does feel abysmal,” Dimitri’s lips curved. The challenger seemed to have a knack to speak frankly, something which only a few people could. Dedue was one of them, but then again it was only during those traded holiday visits that they could make most of everything to exchange ideas and opinions. Something in the Obolenski nobleman’s heart rejoiced in discreet—it looked like he wouldn’t have to be dependent on Dedue for a counsel. He knew he would complain less in his letters in the future too; at least there was a new mission he could do—which was honing his skills so he could truly challenge his father again.

“I know that feeling.”

“Really?” Dimitri’s eyes widened.

“Yeah! Feels worse perhaps, because my old man is actually understanding,” the curious challenger said. “I suppose your father wanted you to be very good at what you do because you are his only child and heir. Mine, though—at times I feel as though I don’t contribute anything.”

“That can’t be true. You are this sweet, what kind of a father will begrudge you?” Dimitri’s reply was blunt too. “Say, why don’t you tell me more about him? About your family? Where do you even live, my good friend?”

“Sweet?” the Cossack challenger stopped talking. Those mint eyes warily scanned Dimitri’s person from head to toe, but for some reason and another, the challenger found it hard to keep looking at the Obolenski nobleman.

Dimitri, on the other hand, nodded happily. His eyes glistened with so much enthusiasm that he appeared so lively when he spoke. He grinned a little bit, glad that Dedue was out of earshot. Vivacious and sincere, he also arched his neck so that he could talk more comfortably, cutting the distance between them… shorter. “Of course you are.”

“Oh, but Your Lordship…”

“You never mocked the people you defeated. Even willing to jump in the middle of a fight when you sensed it was going awry or too unfair to continue,” Dimitri replied. “You are also mindful of me. You never hit where you know it can injure seriously. You didn’t notice my flaws only to turn them against me. I got a good ass-kicking, but it wasn’t as though I was beaten up.”

“Ah,” the challenger murmured. “This is just a friendly match, Your Lordship. If the situation was… different, I’m sure you would fight me to your potential as well.”

“And I’m so glad the situation wasn’t like that,” Dimitri smiled. “What can I give you to repay this valuable guidance?”

“Your Lordship shouldn’t have to worry about such a thing,” the challenger said.

“Won’t you at least answer my questions then?” Dimitri pleaded. “Like the good name I should call you with, for example.”

“Your Lordship already called me a friend—won’t that be enough?”

“You can call me Dimitri if you like,” the blonde countered. “I suppose ‘friend’ and ‘lordship’ are pretty imbalanced, don’t you think?”

“Oh…”

“And your voice is nice to hear. It’s lulling, giving me peace. What is not to like when I hear you call my name?”

“I—excuse me?”

“Ahaha, why are you flustered? … Wait. Your face is red. Are you cold?” Dimitri took off his shawl to wrap the challenger in it. “There. Are you sure you are alright?”

“I… no, I challenge you again!” out of the blue the challenger threw back the shawl at Dimitri’s face. When the latter gasp, the challenger treated him with yet another punch. But when Dimitri contemplated the best way to dodge it, the challenger changed tactics, pushing Dimitri towards the snow.

“Not this time,” Dimitri replied. Casually he flipped his position… and before too long, he had the challenger pinned on the cold snowy land. “My victory, dear friend. I’ve been improving my speed as well!”

“I—see…”

“Name?” Dimitri asked gently.

“Not—important.”

“How so?”

“Because,” the challenger picked balled some snow and threw it at the nobleman’s face. Dimitri coughing out of reflex was the precious chance the challenger had been waiting so far, so a flight was made, and Dimitri found himself stunned when his new friend hurriedly left. Darkness finally came down to wrap Obolensk within its grasp. Dimitri could only watch as the curious challenger’s figure only got to be smaller and smaller, swallowed by the snow hail as the distance between them widened.

… He swore he thought he caught a swirl of spectacular-looking mint hair, though.

********

  
  


“Frankly, I’m not sure about this, son. You want me to gather Cossack warriors around here just for… that?” Knyaz Lambert put down his glass.

Not only that winter nights were getting harsher with each passing day, snow hails became more frequent and unpredictable. Some gymnasium closed the doors for a week when the coldest winter mornings hit Obolensk, leaving a pile of thick snow at people’s doors as well as halting Dedue’s return to Sochi. The harsh winter left most residents holing themselves up in their respective houses, insulating heat and bundling up to overcome the challenges caused by the weather and sudden drop of the already-low temperature. Dimitri had to yield to Mother Nature this time—neither he nor Dedue could make a casual visit to the town square. The merry folk boxing activities had stopped commencing as well because it was literally too cold to be outside. Nobles like them could see themselves pampered, but peasants worked even harder. As such, going out of the house only meant that there was some work to do, or some food to forage.

“I beg of you, Lord Father,” Dimitri replied in a low voice. He was ashamed; ashamed beyond belief. He couldn’t meet the curious challenger because of the weather—now how could he apologize? All that was left was merely the Cossack hat which the challenger didn’t bother to pick up when leaving him in haste like that. “I would be so grateful if you can gather Cossack captains and bring me with you to speak with them.”

“But what is the story again?” Knyaz Lambert frowned. “I assure you, Dima—those imperial captains were paid more than enough to replace a missing hat.”

“I need to apologize,” Dimitri rubbed his nose. “I thought it was a lighthearted urging, but seems my new friend was distressed. I dread the idea of making another person uncomfortable.”

“This is why,” Lambert sighed. “I told you before—don’t be reckless.”

Dimitri looked at his father.

“… Don’t give me that puppy-eye stare, l’vonchik.”

“It worked on Dedue, Lord Father.”

“I made you. Of course I am immune.”

Dimitri grumbled.

“Alright,” Knyaz Lambert clapped his hands. “I need to know how severe your mistake is so I can decide—including having to bail you out from a potential feud!”

Dimitri scratched his head. “I have a new friend whom I met at the town square. I was just wanting to know the name so I can—call, you see.”

Lambert _stared_ at him. “So you’ve been participating in those fistfight matches.”

Dimitri gulped.

“You know what,” Lambert slammed his hand over the table. “Now _that_ is my son. When I was your age, I actually went there a lot. I remember sending out a German nobleman with a full head knock that he saw stars! Bless Herzog von Arundel.”

“Because he didn’t harbor a grudge towards you?”

“Hmm? No, because that’s how I met your stepmother!” Lambert chirped giddily. “I have to say, son, it was definitely hate at the first sight. I understand, though. Of course she wasn’t pleased because I beat her brother. She dropped a freshly-caught salmon over my head, but then we looked into each other eyes and I got to call her Patricia for the first time. Can’t be more romantic than that.”

Dimitri _stared_ with an open mouth.

“… Where were we?” Lambert took turn coughing. “So? Did you drop a salmon over this friend’s head? Or was it vice-versa? No? Then what’s the problem here?”

“W-wouldn’t you worry Uncle Volkhard would _hate_ you?”

“No? Why should he, I brought his sister home. There’s hard in his name—he needs to try harder.”

… Dimitri _raked_ his head.

“Very well,” Lambert’s sudden reply startled Dimitri. “Whatever happened at the town square there seems to… benefit you. How do I put this—you are more focused. Your moves are getting better too. Your strength is regulated; I see prowess.”

“Oh…”

“I suppose you owe your new friend for that,” Lambert took another vodka shot as Dimitri bobbed his head eagerly. “Fine, then. You keep that hat and I’ll ask around. But one more thing—if you offended your Cossack friend indeed, Dima, you have to be prepared to apologize.”

“I will, Lord Father. After all, those eyes were very bright and the voice was sweet.”

Lambert stopped drinking. Dimitri grabbed the vodka bottle and consumed it.

“… Go to church,” Lambert sighed.

“Will I find the Cossack there?” Dimitri’s eyes lit up at an instant. Lambert _emptied_ that vodka bottle.

Regardless, the mission commenced. Dimitri waited _impatiently_ for Lambert’s return. As nobles generally held commanding military posts, it was typical for dukes and princes to meet up with the captains of the detachments they led regularly. Sometimes the capital had a new program which commanders must follow. Sometimes they exercised with other regiments. Sometimes…

Sometimes, a man just wanted a second chance.

Dimitri couldn’t sit still. Dedue’s words couldn’t ease his mind. Panicked, the blonde replayed that fateful day again and again, trying to find fault, trying to find _his_ fault as he went back to sail memory lane with a resolve sled. He asked for the challenger’s name—and didn’t get it. Alright, some people were very private. Some others were socially anxious, and these two groups were also shy. But he figured if the new friend was angry, then it wasn’t supposed to be… blushy. The shade his friend wore should be hot red, probably blue or even purple—but… dusty pink?

Dimitri knew he lost focus again. Those eyes, though; he longed to look into them again. He wondered if those mint strands felt just as soft slipping between his fingers, and it had to be fun to cuddle the friend for a hug. This winter was harsh, wasn’t it?

Thankfully he didn’t have to wait long. Knyaz Lambert’s return propelled him from the seat he was occupying. He helped his father dusting the snow off him, feeling so odd because he was never this enthusiastic just to find another person’s name. Yet Knyaz Lambert, sensing his son seemed to be different, finally dropped a name—the hat belonged to Captain Jeralt Eisner of the Kuban Cossacks! Without waiting for further information such as what regiment this Captain Eisner served in, Dimitri ran towards the stable to have his personal mount prepared.

“Son! Hey, son, wait!” Lambert yelled. “I haven’t even given you the address.”

Dimitri scratched his head. His horse smacked his face.

Regardless, Dimitri galloped to Captain Eisner’s residence. The snow was thick under his warhorse’s legs, but he kept going on. He didn’t know where on earth that _wild_ idea came from, but considering his father won his bride after enduring a salmon, then perhaps…

Perhaps he made fishermen in town happy that day indeed.

Nervous but also eager, Dimitri knocked on a simple wooden house which he found to be pretty close to the town square. Perhaps that explained why his Cossack friend could disappear quickly as like, but—it mattered so little now; he was going in, and ghost or not he would like to pay his respects. He held his breath when someone answered the door, and…

“Your Lordship?!”

Unfortunately, Dimitri had to silence Captain Eisner with a salmon. Fortunately, the captain was still alive—he welcomed Dimitri in, wearing an expression which could only be translated into _what in the absolute flying saucer fuck_ because Dimitri had spoken of the reason of his visit so… ardently.

“I knocked your child’s hat!”

“That is mine, Your Lordship,” Captain Eisner said. “Byleth loves stealing my clothes.”

“That’s the name?”

“… You didn’t even know?”

“Bozhe moy. Captain, _you_ wouldn’t even know…” Dimitri slurped his tea. Captain Eisner waited while he composed his thoughts, finally able to weave them together into a story which would shake the entire Obolensk… if not the market, considering he bought many salmons there. Captain Eisner stared in disbelief as Dimitri relayed his story—about the fight, about Byleth who defeated him and taught him barehand fighting in return; about how he thought he wronged Byleth in any way possible that he had come to apologize… but _very_ unsure of his own eloquence—not--that he decided to bring souvenirs as a courtesy.

“With salmons,” Captain Eisner stated blankly in the manner Byleth did.

“Well…”

… Only then Dimitri realized what in the absolute flying saucer fuck it was indeed tying to woo someone with a dozen salmons which he carried like a bouquet. But hold on—woo? But he wasn’t a dog. Was Byleth? Did Byleth woof?

O and F weren’t so apart—or so Dimitri stated back to Captain Eisner.

“Ah, that kid,” the captain muttered thoughtfully. “Probably told you about wanting to surpass me, the way _you_ wanted to surpass your father.”

“Oh, don’t worry Sir, my father is still alive and I never wish you to pass away…”

Captain Eisner frowned. Dimitri wanted to swallow an entire salmon. “If I may,” he regained his bearing after coughing six times. “Was Byleth also… training?”

“Training? Ha! No. Byleth wants to fish thirty salmons in a day, beating my record of twenty-nine.”

“In freezing weather!”

“Exactly is!”

“But why?” Dimitri gaped in shock. Dedue had to know he wasn’t the most stubborn person in Obolensk—Byleth just dethroned him!

“Because this is Byleth we are talking about,” Captain Eisner sighed, making a finger gesture… behind the curtain. Dimitri didn’t need further instruction—he would be so willing to kiss Captain Eisner’s cheeks if only he didn’t smell like a dozen salmon.

He found Byleth. This time wearing a sarafan with embroidered shirt. Those silky mint strands which he adored were tied with a ribbon—

… He hummed.

“Gavno,” Byleth cussed when a chopped garlic met its target—the nose. Dimitri widened his eyes upon hearing how seamless that cuss word came out of his new friend, but rather…

“Byleth?”

His Cossack friend _froze_. “Wrong person, Your Lordship!”

“Byleth.”

“Not Byleth, Your Lordship!”

“My dear Cossack warrior…”

“Only the hat, Your Lordship—stolen too!”

“Hmm. I’ve come to return it.”

“Dear me, am I jailed?!”

“Why, my dear, are you a salmon?”

“Do you think I am?”

“I will not assume. How crass of me.”

“Oh. I suppose that’s why you call me a deer.”

“… A dear one, Byleth.”

“Did I tell you I am not Byleth?”

“You did, Byleth.”

“And yet.”

“And yet I bought you salmon.”

“A salmon!”

“Plural—even better!”

“What?!”

“And your father’s hat. As well as my sincere, sincere, utmost apologies,” Dimitri truly chuckled this one. That successfully made Byleth to turn around... face red and flustered as though being cooked under the sun.

“There must be a mistake,” Byleth replied in a low tone. “Even if I’m Byleth, I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Ah.”

“Excuse me then,” Byleth said. “Your salmons, however, are welcome.”

“My salmon?”

“Plural, Your Lordship!”

“Hmm.”

“If that will be all?”

“Byleth.”

“N-no.”

“Why did you run away?”

“Because you are handsome—I mean, because you are hand...”

“I have hands indeed, yes!”

“Y-Your Lordship.”

“Plural too.”

“I—“

Dimitri sighed. Salmon and not, suddenly he pivoted on his leg… throwing a punch towards Byleth’s direction. The latter gasped but with the reflexes which kicked in, the punch caught wind because Byleth quickly deflected it. Yet Dimitri shook his head and brought down his hand. Byleth braced for a follow-up attack when Dimitri raised his left hand, and—

“… Byleth.”

Dimitri’s voice was soft. He only took Byleth’s hand… for a handshake.

“I told you, wrong person,” Byleth whispered faintly, so, so faintly while Dimitri smiled… and bent down for a handkiss.

“My apologies,” he whispered. “Gorgeous it is then?”

**Author's Note:**

> Most material regarding historical Russian boxing for this fic is sourced from [here.](https://web.archive.org/web/20070519055902/http://www.rustrana.ru/article.php?nid=3006) Clothing interpretation is a mix of Reform Era fashion (Tsar Peter's time, r. 1682 - 1725), Catherine II's fashion, and early Renaissance Russian clothing (1500s) which itself is a combination of folk clothing and boyar fashion.
> 
> To recap, fistfighting in Russia started around medieval times, but it gained traction during Renaissance, particularly during Catherine II's era. In the 16th century, it was a popular sport during winter in St. Petersburg. The rules were pretty loose and fighters were allowed sticks along with bare knuckles. Tsar Peter favored this activity because he thought this could showcase (and motivate) his people's strength. During Catherine II's time (r. 1762 - 1796), street boxing also enticed nobles as well as commoners. The famous competitor of such background was Count Grigory Orlov, who was reportedly good at boxing and liked to challenge other men. Russia's last tsar Nicholas II completely banned street boxing later on because he deemed it as an unnecessary amusement based on bloodlust.
> 
> The article, however, cited that historians had different opinions about how brutal these matches were, because the fights were not always based on strive and heavy injuries as well as death resulting from the fights were (probably) not that common.
> 
> Kynaz is an old Russian nobility title granted for princes who draw their line from Rurik Dynasty of Novgorod / Kievan Rus'. A knyaz's son is called knyazhich.


End file.
